Rylin rode along the path, listening to the horse’s footsteps against the carpet of dry autumn leaves and to the soft whisper of the wind in the forest canopy. The sun was setting, and the forest was settling into a deep red dusk.
It had been months since he had left the city, and the quiet was unsettling. He felt as though there might be people watching him, concealed behind the shadowed trees. There weren’t, of course. Though there were other things. Animals, yes. But not just animals.
Rylin chuckled to himself and shook his head. Whatever creatures lived in this forest, they could be no more dangerous than him.
“Shael,” he muttered. He shook his head again.
He stopped the horse next to a stream and a small clearing. He swung to the ground and tied the horse to a long branch. The horse dipped its head to drink.
Rylin took off his gloves and boots, relishing in the coolness against his sweat-slicked hands and the raw earth beneath his feet. He untied one of the packs from the horse and found a dry place at the edge of the clearing. With a hatchet and a flint and steel–not one of those damned enchanted lighters–he built a small fire and made himself a potato stew.
When he was done, he untied another pack and dug out a book. It was a slim leather bound, its cover worn from age, its pages beginning to yellow and wrinkle. A Collection of Antient Tales, compiled and edited by Gimenur Saqon. Old folktales and mythologies; stories that thousands of years ago would have been religion but now existed only as subtle influences on the superstitions of today.
Gimenur believed there was some fundamental truth to these ancient tales that had been lost over the millenia, and Rylin believed it too. He believed it because they spoke to his soul. He believed it because they frightened and saddened and cheered and warmed him. He believed it because some of them spoke of creatures that could kill with a touch. But really he believed it because of one story; the story he flipped to now: Fiersoul.
***
Rylin put the book down. He had been young the first time he had read this story; too young, perhaps. He had cried then. That had been the only time. Now he felt an ache in his chest, an ache that felt like agony.
The fire had grown low, and the night was growing old. Rylin unrolled a blanket and a hard pillow from the larger pack and settled down next to the waning fire. It was a still night; not a hint of a breeze, as though the forest was holding its breath. Even the horse was quiet, and it was like the world had emptied.
Rylin set his mind to other thoughts. To his plans.
Getting into the Royal Archives would be ideal; it didn’t require a man to demonstrate his Talents. Only knowledge mattered.
The King’s University would provide him with a wealth of information, but the Royal Archives would have what he was looking for; it was a treasure trove of ancient documents.
In order to obtain access to the Royal Archives, you had to either demonstrate sufficient knowledge in a discipline and have a history of publications to be deemed a master scholar, or you needed to donate an authentic and valuable book that the Archives did not already possess.
The second option Rylin had always dismissed, not because he believed such a book did not exist, but because he suspected it was not just a book that was required to obtain access. The first option he had never really given much consideration; he had never obtained any formal education, and though he could read well, he had never read much, and most of what he knew were things he picked up here and there throughout his life.
It was the same problem with getting into the University.
But the Church was different.
From what he had heard, any strong Mage–someone with more than one Talent–could apply to become a priest. If Rylin were to do that, it would mean using his power–using his curse–but it might have been his best chance at learning about this curse. At learning about Shael.
Rylin brushed clear a spot next to a tree and laid out his blanket. He tucked his arm beneath his head and closed his eyes. He’d have more time to think about this. More time to decide what he would do.
***
Rylin awoke to a bang. He started upright, right hand at his dagger, left at his pouch, even as his head spun with the remnants of sleep. Before he could stop himself, his finger brushed a mistleaf apple, and a thrill of warmth shot up his arm, snapping him awake.
He cursed, but the power was in him now, so he focused it in his eyes and peered out into the night. There was a faint glow of light past the clearing and deep in the forest. He stared at the glow. It was bluish and fading, and it seemed to flicker like a flame. Were there creatures that let off blue light in the Crimson Forest? Rylin could not remember.
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He released the power from his eyes and grimaced against the brief pain as it rushed down to spread back throughout his body. He rubbed his eyes, and when he opened them, the glow was almost gone.
The horse had disappeared.
The branch to which he had tied it was broken, but other than that, there was no sign of the horse. Rylin got up and unsheathed his dagger and searched the clearing. There was no sign of the horse. No torn bridle, no fallen packs, no sign of a struggle. The warm power within him faded, and he shivered, vaguely disgusted.
He began to search the forest surrounding the clearing, and in the dim light managed to find a trail. It weaved through the trees, and as Rylin walked, the smell of smoke began to fill the air.
The trail abruptly stopped and Rylin saw the fire.
It was not a large fire–the rain from the day before had dampened the wood and the leaves, and so only some smaller branches and leaves were alight. But there was a charred circle in the center of the flames where the undergrowth had been burned and flattened, as though there had been an explosion.
But no horse or packs.
Rylin picked his way around the flames. There was another trail leading away from the flames. This one was more faint–just the occasional broken twig and flattened plant. But dawn was beginning to break, and the forest was lightening.
Rylin followed the trail.
***
There were more signs of fire along the trail, though most of them had gone out by the time Rylin got to them.
And then he began to smell the smoke.
Previously, the smell of smoke had been a soft thing that grew stronger when he approached one of these charred spots in the forest. But now, it was as though smoke was filling the entire forest. And it was not just the smoke of burned trees. There were other smells; sweet and aromatic smells mixed in with the sharp rankness of tar and burnt flesh.
As the sun rose, its light revealed the sickly yellow smog that had descended on the forest. Rylin wet a handkerchief in a stream and placed it over his nose. He was getting close.
He soon struck upon a road. It may have been the road he had been traveling on the day before, but it was hard to say for sure. He got on the road, and though his instincts told him to stay away from the apparent source of the smoke, he surged forward.
He broke into a run. A high wall loomed up in the smoke to his left, then fell away as he ran past it. A few minutes later, the trees began to thin, and he saw the shadows of buildings in front of him. The smoke here was thicker and stung his eyes, and the air was hot.
Then he was in the village.
It was burning. The smell of tar came from the burning roofs, and the smell of burnt flesh came from the people.
There were people scattered by the burning homes, charred beyond recognition. Some of the homes’ walls were broken and crumbling, as though something heavy had smashed into them. Rylin noticed most of them were made of stone. Strange, in a small village in the middle of a forest.
It looked like a raid. Some of the local governors in the area were feuding. They accused each other of stealing and justified their own raids by citing the poor harvest. Raids like this were commonplace this year.
Yet something didn’t seem quite right.
Rylin continued through the village, pressing the handkerchief hard against his mouth and nose. His eyes were watering, but he looked around, studied what he saw. And he realized what it was.
It was too clean.
In a raid, doors would be lying on the streets, ripped off their hinges, miscellaneous items and food would lie strewn along the ground, people would be lying bleeding and injured and dead.
But here there was no human chaos, no evidence of violent indulgence, and each body he came across was burned with no other injuries. It was as though a force of nature had been through here; some kind of a storm.
Rylin noticed streamers and colored decorations along some of the homes which had for the moment escaped the fires. There had been a celebration here. He noticed, too, that many of the homes were made of limestone, hewn with care, and put together with exact precision. The paths between the homes were also cobbled, like they would be in a large city. Like they would be in Gol.
This must have been a wealthy village; the closest quarry was in the low mountains next to Gol. It would have been expensive to transport them this deep into the Crimson Forest.
But the village was empty now.
The village opened up into a square, and here the carnage was even more apparent. Burned bodies were piled on top of each other across the square, and they seemed to be centered around a marble fountain at the center of the open space. It seemed that half the village had gathered here and died.
Rylin took a deep breath through his mouth. Even with the handkerchief he could taste the nauseating air in his mouth.
There was movement. Rylin tightened his hand around the dagger. He crept forward, toward the fountain, careful not to step on any of the bodies.
He saw it. There, just behind the lip of the fountain, was a flicker of flame. Blue flame. It sputtered out of existence as soon as it appeared, but there was no mistaking it. A chill went through him. He dropped the handkerchief.
The crackle of flames seemed to grow louder, and the pungent, toxic smell of smoke seemed to penetrate his skin even as he held his breath. It was hot. Very hot. And sweat beaded across his forehead and came down in streams.
There was no way to go around the pile of bodies in front of the fountain, so Rylin stepped on the bodies, careful not to slip, and peered over the lip of the smoke-blackened fountain.
It was a boy.